Hand-Held

 

“Please kneel or be seated to pray,”

he says.

 

I bow my head, clasp my hands together

and out of habit, close my eyes

feel my breath rush

as the warm wash of words

spills from his lips

 

I think of all those hands

fingers woven

closed in submission

 

pressed to silent lips

embracing faith

where flesh meets flesh

 

perfect and unending

 

that moment

unified

in something close to consummate peace

 

which never lasts

 

but hangs upon his soft command

“please stand

and let us confess -”

 

we rise, penitent as sinners

drowning in our swell

“our faith,”

hang on silence before that expectant

“we -”

 

the chorus-creed, which sounds like rote

as if hope begets ingratitude

 

a wondrous sadness

which seems to etch on every face

a blend of death

and comfort

 

I add my voice in frozen gratitude

pronounce my lost Amen

behind the fold

drop my head in wry supplication

and lacing my fingers

 

think about what lies

unmeasured and wholly

within these hands